


Mistletoe & Wine

by Coraleeveritas



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, First Kiss, devil wears prada au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 08:19:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3167981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coraleeveritas/pseuds/Coraleeveritas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brienne Tarth had never been one for office Christmas parties. There was something about the merciful merriment, caused by forced socialisation and cheap booze, which set her skin crawling. But add in the irritatingly gorgeous Jaime Lannister and a box of stolen mistletoe, and maybe she'll change her mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistletoe & Wine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JustAGirl24](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustAGirl24/gifts).



> A little later than expected but this is my finished prompt for the JB Holiday collection, for JustAGirl's 'obligatory mistletoe fic'. There's a couple of tangents, including the one where it's set in a Devil Wears Prada esque universe, and I hope this doesn't come across as too odd.
> 
> A huge THANK YOU, as always, to my dear friends, RoseHeart and SandwichesYumYum. Words can not express how much these two wonderfully talented ladies mean to me! Thank you, lovelies!!!
> 
> As usual, nothing is mine and I'm just borrowing characters and places to provide happy times for my favourite characters.
> 
> I hope you enjoy! :)

Brienne Tarth had never been one for office Christmas parties. There was something about the merciful merriment, caused by forced socialisation and cheap booze, which set her skin crawling. Not that the glass of Arbor Gold she’d been nursing in the corner of the ballroom for the past half hour was anything close to cheap. One of the few perks that had arisen from a recent merger with the top publishing company in the country had resulted in hefty end of year bonuses for all and sundry, plus a party budget that was somewhere in the region of her yearly rent. And she should know, considering it had been left to her, and Olenna Redwyne’s other junior PA, to organise the whole event.

It had been easier before, when ‘work’ meant nothing more than three or four nights, and the occasional weekend shift, at The Blackbird, when Christmas meant balancing time with her dad and the last of the semester’s papers, when the future promised graduation from the best journalism masters degree she could afford. And the chance to find an entry level job in the cutthroat world of publishing. Never in her wildest dreams had she thought she would end up at a _fashion_ magazine, not with her face and shoulders and lack of femininity, but it was said that even a year working for Olenna Redwyne could open the kind of doors it might take decades to do otherwise. And Brienne was in no position to turn down the opportunity to prove that she was so much more than the sum of her awkwardly arranged parts.

Her clothing choices were continuously critiqued from behind the lenses of Olenna’s tortoiseshell framed spectacles, and by every gawking stylist that flitted in and out of the editor in chief’s office, the worst day occurring when Brienne was bluntly informed that her favourite sweater wasn’t just blue, it was cerulean and why that was of great importance to recent fashion historians. But her work ethic was never questioned.

She regularly worked fourteen, sixteen, eighteen hour days, refusing to openly question the increasing absurdity of the errands she was being sent on. Visiting Nymeria Sand’s twinkling golden workshop to pick up the most beautiful Dornish jewellery she had ever seen was one thing, but the three hour round trip to Daario’s boutique on the other side of the city, just to pick up half a dozen scarves, hardly seemed like an appropriate use of her time. But, little by little, through every perfectly timed coffee run, every exhausted hound she returned to Olenna’s handsome wheelchair bound grandson, every professionally handled phone call, Brienne’s steep learning curve started to level off, her confidence growing with the trust being placed in her abilities.

Despite feeling more and more settled in her all-encompassing assistant’s role, making friends with the wardrobe staff, who accepted her into their circle of creative misfits, there were still days and weeks where Brienne felt more out of place than not. Freckles may have been ‘in’ that season, but they just made her feel even more conspicuous as she went about her day, dwarfing the svelte fashionistas with their thousand dollar purses and perfect blow outs. It’s not exactly where Brienne had been expecting to be, mere months after graduation, but the promise of a better, brighter future meant more to her than the grinding routine of her here and now.

Loras Tyrell, fresh out of fashion school and fighting against the perceived nepotism that had landed him in the heart of the family business, had done his best to help initiate Brienne into the world in which they worked, and occasionally lived and breathed. The skin care samples that were regularly left on her desk were always appreciated, practical in their protection, though prettier than she deserved in appearance. Volume building hair masques had followed, along with balms for her cracked lips, and, one September morning, the nicest winter coat Brienne had ever laid eyes on. It was, of course, too much to accept as a simple gift, coming from a shoot where the bulky male model hadn’t turned up, but her friend simply streamed off a list that had promised she was owed a lot more than one coat, and refused to take it back.

It was only several weeks later, bundled up against the winds of winter in a woollen debt she’d never be able to repay, that Brienne first met the Lannisters. The merger of Casterly House and Garden Path Publishing had long been rumoured, the two companies battling down to the finer print of their agreement like a bride and groom over a pre-nuptial, while the staff alternatively scoured the business or gossip sections of the newsstands for titbits. But it wasn’t until the ice queen and prince charming strolled through the gold and green doors that the union had been made official.

There was no doubting that the Lannister twins were beautiful, giving off an aura of immortals sent down from the seven heavens to grace the common smallfolk with their godly presence as they joined Brienne in the elevator, whispering between themselves. Though, unlike the Maiden and Warrior of legend, every circling rumour spoke of how Cersei and Jaime were also capricious, one reckless and the other spiteful, seeming equally proud and vain and entitled, their father more interested in keeping up appearances than the wellbeing of his three children. The youngest of which, Tyrion, was notable in his absence not only that day but for so many days afterwards that Brienne often overheard the interns discussing the actuality of his existence.

Even when he did think to finally show his face, usually hung-over and reeking of cheap perfume, quite often bringing the Casterly Garden name into disrepute and leaving the assistants to run interference with the press, Tyrion was easier to deal with than his irritatingly gorgeous big brother. Jaime Lannister was one of the few people she knew who could make her blood boil with just a raised eyebrow and a smirk. She would feel her skin flush and burn with nothing more than a wink of his emerald eye, her nervous insecurities bursting into life as he stared a little longer than was absolutely necessary every morning and every evening as their schedules started to sync. And all of that was before he even opened his mouth.

In no time at all the gilded square of their building’s elevator had become like a verbal boxing ring, Loras’ lotions and potions unable to do the impossible and make her appear anywhere near pretty, Jaime seeming to revel in calling her out on the slightest touch of vanity. And every misplaced term of endearment gift wrapping his insults just made her bite back harder, faster. Though only when she found a chance to close her eyes at the end of the day did Brienne find enough forethought to land a winning blow, letting her dreams take her as far as pushing him back against the walls of their temporary cage, the jeers of the past few weeks echoing in her head as she told Jaime exactly what was wrong with trust fund brats who’d never grown up. And every night his response was only to cock his head and _smoulder_ up at her, flipping the strands of blond hair that had fallen into his eyes away like some kind of ridiculous fairy tale hero, all the while purring of his prowess as he tried to take back the ground she had gained. Brienne knew that she was taller, stronger and perhaps even heavier than his toned, lithe six foot plus frame and so, in her head, Jaime never could get under her skin the way he could in real life. But, as those encounters increased both in number and frequency, her dreams started to shift and intensify.

Though she had no idea how, by the second month of the merger, Jaime had managed to discover, and regularly gate crash, her late night sessions in the company gym, constantly choosing the machines to her left and turning her work out into yet another competition. Brienne had liked the emptiness, the midnight hour offering her much needed solitude, as well as a chance to avoid the kind of colleagues who didn’t seem to perspire. Jaime’s presence intruded into the focused relaxation she’d finally carved out in the middle of a whirlwind of activity and she hated him for it. Red faced, sweating, and dressed in leggings and a hand-me-down t-shirt, she was far from the Amazonian princess her friend wished she could be, but still he mocked and pestered and _stared_. Yet, when Jaime finally persuaded her to join him in the recently refurbished twenty-eighth floor pool, the early hours of a cold November morning an unlikely time and place for a heart to heart, Brienne had done more than her comfort level of staring.

“You’re not listening to a word I’m saying, are you?” Loras laughed amicably, an elbow making contact with her side as his curly head brushed against her shoulder, reminding Brienne of how ridiculous she felt in the backless sparkly top he’d found, her new indigo jeans uncomfortable in their unwashed state.

“Of course I am,” she replied, carefully sipping at her glass again as she tore herself away from the memories associated with the pair who had just walked into the room. Ever since she had spent that hour in the pool with him, Jaime jet lagged yet still gorgeous as he spilled unheard truths like a waterfall, joking that she was the only one he could talk to, she hadn’t known how to act around him. Her dreams offered up a new ending to their elevator discussions, lips almost brushing before the doors binged and her eyes flew open, but her fantasies didn’t make what they now knew about each other any less awkward. “You were wondering if Olyvar in accounts was gay. Again.”

“Oh, I _know_ he is. But no, I was asking how much of the Arbor you’re going to need to drink before you go over and talk to him.”

“Who?”

“Don’t play coy with me, Brie, I’d have to be blind not to notice whatever’s been going on with you and our beautiful new investor.”

“ _Nothing_ is going on,” Brienne hissed, bringing her emptying glass back up to her lips as if it could hide the blush flourishing across her cheeks, though even she had to admit that Loras couldn’t be the only person to add two and two together and come up with five.

Having been granted a rare weekend off, on her return, Brienne had found that one of the junior features editors had been fired by Jaime over a series of disrespectful comments he’d made about one of the assistants. The rumour in the break room was that Ron Connington had likened her to a ‘bear in Burberry’ but, she hadn’t found the courage to confront Jaime with that accusation just yet. Her only recent contact with him had been through the company messaging service, discussing an piece he was putting together for February’s Valentine issue with her help, lunch being promptly delivered to her desk from the lobby coffee shop three days in a row with trademark Lannister panache, as if to make up for all the extra energy she was expending. “Absolutely nothing,” she reiterated, looking down at her friend to avoid watching Jaime and Tyrion shaking hands with Loras’ father.

“Doesn’t mean you don’t want it to. All those late night rendezvous…”

“In a gym. We work out. We're not even really friends!”

“So, it’s just hate sex then?” he asked straight faced as she spluttered and dribbled a mouthful of wine down her chin, all other conversations seeming to quieten at the most embarrassing moment possible. Brienne swore she caught Jaime glancing her way, her face turning as red as the ostentatious Christmas decorations as liquid soaked through her top, but his green eyes were gone before she really had a chance to acknowledge them. “The way the janitors tell it, there’s been some _interesting_ noises coming from up there almost every night for a while now. Whatever's going on between you two, just tell me he’s good. It would be such a shame if he looked like that and didn’t know how to use it.”

“We run. We lift weights. That’s it, I promise,” Brienne whispered. _We sometimes share our deepest and darkest secrets_. “And for the last time, I’m not talking to you or your sister about my or...oh, hi, Tyrion.”

"Brienne," she was greeted warmly, the youngest Lannister taking her unoccupied hand between his two smaller ones as a shyly polite smile flitted across her face. Even if she had been of a more normal, average height, she would have still towered over Tyrion. Yet, as it was, Brienne couldn't help but feel like they were players in some elaborate joke, on the rare occasions she found herself walking alongside him. There were certainly always enough whispers hounding their footsteps to support that sobering thought. "What a lovely surprise to see you here tonight. I had it on very disappointed authority that you didn't like to attend work functions. Something about feeling like a 'giantess in Givenchy'?"

"Your brother really needs to stop putting words in my mouth," she blurted out, her manners all but forgotten in the second it took for the returning frustration to bubble over. "Just because I told him last night that I..."

Loras and Tyrion laughed in kind unison as she trailed off with the realisation of how her reaction to Jaime, yet again, could be misinterpreted. Blushing furiously all over again, Brienne tried to cover her tracks but, at the sound of her friend mumbling something that sounded distinctively like 'pillow talk', she stuttered to a halt, feeling the familiarity of Jaime's gaze dancing over her reddening skin. She’d grown almost used to the weight of his stare, reaching out to search and study during their weekly staff meetings, mossy intent running the length of her long legs, wide hips and flat chest as she learned not to fumble with her briefing notes, that the pressure no longer left her with a yearning to catch her breath. But his smile still could. Not the smarmy, superficial, self-important signal for forthcoming flirtation and tempestuous teasing, which could appear at a moment’s notice, and disappear almost as quickly, but the heartfelt, welcoming quirk of his lips that was as rare as a warm day in winter and had the power to make her own heart skip beats.

And as she lifted her head, trying to surface from beneath the waves of embarrassment crashing around her, he smiled that same, godsforsaken smile and she was lost again. Dozens of chattering conversations faded into the background while they sized each other up for the hundredth time, the room emptying in her mind as his eyebrows raised at seeing nothing but generous lines of glitter encasing her torso. Tailored velvet festively caressed his own covered muscles, her eyes drawn to the unfastened buttons at the hollow of his neck, Jaime moistening his grin as she finally adverted her widening eyes and snapped back to reality.

“Sorry? You were saying?” she mumbled.

Tyrion chuckled, in her distraction having picked up a glass of Dornish red from one of the circling waiters, looking up at her in a way only his brother could successfully pull off. “I was just wondering where your party planning compatriot was tonight. But if you have other places you’d rather be, other people you’d rather be talking to, don’t let us keep you.”

“No, its fine,” she replied, setting down her own empty glass and smoothing over her sequinned top in order to keep her hands busy until Loras passed her another sample of the Arbor’s best with a beaming grin. “Sansa’s just taking a few days off over Christmas to be with her family as she’ll be going to Vaes Dothrak in the New Year with Olenna.”

“Are you planning on taking a trip somewhere interesting?” Jaime cut in effortlessly, having left his most recent doe eyed, although overlooked, companion to flounce back into the comforting arms of her fellow interns. “What is it for this time? Leather jackets? This year’s ‘must have’ purse?”

“ _I’m_ not going anywhere when we’ve got a magazine to send to the printers in just over a fortnight,” Brienne volleyed back, glaring into the scorn dripping off Jaime’s accusations as if it was an unseasonal thunder storm that would soon pass. “Not that it would be anybody’s business if I was going with Olenna to the spring fashion shows.”

“You’d have to call ahead and ask them to sit you in the back row,” he pointed out bluntly, taking the delicate wine glass out of her hands and drinking deeply from where her honeyed balm had left a noticeable imprint. His returning smile almost split his face as he licked his lips again, tasting _her_ , Brienne realised, the mere thought turning her from scarlet to a deeper crimson. “Just so your face doesn’t ruin any of their photos.”

“The world would be a very dull place indeed if we all looked like you and your sister." _Why did you tell me about her? It was over long before you started here._

“You’ve clearly never been to Lannisport.”

“No. And you’ve just given me a very good reason not to visit. One of you is more than enough to deal with.”

Jaime laughed as Tyrion cleared his throat, drawing their attention away from each other. “And this, dear brother, is why I usually sleep with the women I’m attracted to, at the earliest possible moment.”

“I’m not…”

“He’s not…”

“Finally!” Tyrion exclaimed as they ran into matching brick walls of denial, hoisting his glass in the air like he was about to start a toast that was neither expected nor appreciated. “Something you both agree on.”

Unable to decide which brother needed the focus of her ire more, Brienne simply narrowed her eyes and sighed, hoping she would be allowed to gracefully bow out of the party before the conversation strode into deeper, more perilous waters. She had, after all, done everything that had been asked of her and more. The wine was flowing freely, canapés were being routinely served and most, if not all, of her colleagues appeared to be having a good time on the company dollar. All that was left for Brienne to accomplish was to make her excuses, slip into a cab and fall into bed to greet the same uncomfortably recurring dreams that interrupted her slumbers night after night.

“I wouldn’t say that it was the only thing you two have seen eye to eye on recently,” Loras mused under his breath, too quiet to properly break confidences Brienne had seen fit to share during their occasional Saturday night cocktail laden venting sessions. “Or should I not mention the fact that he’s been sending you perfectly healthy, yet mouth wateringly good, lunches since the middle of the week and you haven’t thrown a single one of them back in his face?”

“We all know how Lannisters feel about debts,” she murmured in reply as Jaime and Tyrion exchanged some sort of secret sibling code that obviously meant more than what it seemed like to the two, eavesdropping, outsiders. “And he thinks he owes me since this project is taking away my break time.”

“Brie, to those of us who love you, it’s beginning to look like you’re not only having late night hook ups with the company’s most eligible bachelor but also frustrated lunch dates with him, via messenger.”

 _Oh, gods, no._ “We’re not.”

“You really are.” She could see Loras' mouth forming the words but it was Tyrion's voice that found her ears, two conversations pairing off and coming back to the same childishly circling conclusions, her thoughts awash with the idea that trying to battle quicksand would be easier than working through scenarios she hadn't truly wanted to linger on.

It was Jaime, for seven's sake. She was taking him coffee in the morning to make up for his lunches, inviting him to meetings he only sporadically attended during the day, running and bickering and laughing with him until her sides ached at night, and there was no real necessity to look for a deeper meaning to their time together. It was just a shame, she thought as she watched him animatedly converse with his brother with one eye on her the whole time, that the stubborn sensibilities in her head and the painful longing in her heart couldn't come to the same harmlessly platonic agreement.

Closing her eyes for a second, she desperately wanted to change the subject before her imagination took charge and painted a new picture of what could happen if their elevator rides were only a few moments longer, and her exit strategy arrived just in time. "I think Olyvar just walked in, if you want to go and flirt at him some more," Brienne informed her friend with a conspiratorially slow smile, trying to ignore the confused yet knee weakening look Jaime was sending her way after Tyrion had disappeared into the gathering crowd, following after a giggling waitress. "Just promise me that on Monday you'll keep any details about you two strictly PG-13.”

"Only if you promise to do the same. Without the safe for work rating, of course."

Brienne sighed again, rolling her eyes to the hand-decorated ceiling. She'd overseen the whole process on her own that morning, with Sansa away, and there likely wasn't a square inch of space left where she didn't know the exact ornate bauble, length of golden tinsel, or diamanté encrusted streamer that had been hung. She only had a moment to look but an out of place flash of green and white piqued her attention nevertheless, the delivered sprigs of mistletoe purposely left behind on the basis that Olenna probably wouldn't think her colleagues needed any excuses to get closer. As the offending articles were now locked away in her desk draw, she thought there was no way that could have been what she had glanced at.

"How many times," she asked, her mind racing to work out who exactly could have messed up the intricate decorative design. "Do I have to tell you that nothing's going on between me and Jaime?"

"Just until I believe it. Which is always going to need one more denial."

She grimaced, a rush of suspicion running races in her head almost overwhelming her unstated best friend duties. "Have fun, Loras. Call me if things go well and you need a ride in the morning."

"And why would I want to interrupt your wakeup call from a certain man who can't seem to stay away from your side?"

"That's not..."

"Anything you say, Brienne." He surreptitiously inclined his head to where Jaime was hovering just out of earshot, nodding along with whatever story pretty Pia had begun to spin, though it was clear his attention was focused elsewhere. Brienne’s borrowed glass was still clutched in his hand, his eyes flickering closed with every sip as if he was taking his time to savour the taste of not just the wine, the sheer pleasure softening his features and causing her skin to blaze hot enough to start half a hundred fires.

She tried to pull away from the warmth wantonly coursing through her veins, but a flicker of a thought suddenly caught and smouldered into life, memories of a time when she’d been made the punch-line of every joke possible bursting back into being. Surely her friends wouldn’t be so eager for her to _get laid_ , fall in love, and live happily ever after that they would break a lock and betray her trust? Sansa would have never let her hide the mistletoe, so Brienne simply never told her of it before locking it away. She knew where the heart was involved, the romantically idealistic redhead would have given her friends the world if she could. But then there was Loras. And Tyrion. And the jackasses in bookings who certainly wouldn’t be acting with her best interests in mind.

“Not that you’ll need it,” Loras informed her, cutting through silent promises to maim whoever had meddled where they weren’t wanted, his voice dropping down so low that even she had to strain to hear him. “But good luck.”

Brienne wasn’t so unaware of her changing surroundings that she hadn’t seen Jaime start to stalk back over to where they were standing, but Loras’ smoothly murmured, “Merry Christmas, Jaime," and parting grin had her every muscle contracting to attention. If he did, in fact, turn out to be the mistletoe thief, she could always do one better than simply taking her revenge, she could call his sister and let her do her worst.

“I’ll never understand why you two are so close,” Jaime confessed as she took a step towards the relative safety of the overburdened wall, the dripping rainbow of Christmas colours tickling her bare skin, and he pushed forward to claim the empty space at her right side. “I know it’s difficult to tell sometimes, but he does know you’re a girl, right? Or did the need to gossip about boys and clothes give you away before your lack of tits could?”

Instinct made her roll her eyes, catching another momentary glance at the berries and leaves which were definitely no longer put away for safekeeping. She’d only left the office that afternoon to use the bathroom, and each time she certainly wasn’t gone long enough for anyone to have come and gone without her noticing. _Could Tyrion have a master key that works on desks as well as doors?_ "Sometimes people can surprise you,” she replied without thinking, not knowing if she meant Loras or Jaime himself, but suspecting the truth was lurking somewhere between the two. “And sometimes they’re just as callous and shallow and uncaring as you think they are.”

“Says the serious journalist wasting her talent by working as a glorified servant at a women’s fashion magazine.”

“Says the gorgeous, filthy rich son of the country’s top media mogul who could walk away tomorrow and never have to worry about paying his own army of glorified servants.”

Jaime paused to drain her former glass, as if she had just posed a complex mathematical equation that would need time to work out, and as the moment of silence stretched into eternity, she realised that they’d thrown at least one compliment at each other amongst their usual biting banter. “You know you’d miss me if I wasn’t around. Do you really think someone like _Loras Tyrell_ would be able to keep up with our midnight marathons?”

Brienne, for her sins, refused to back down when her buttons were being so blatantly pushed, Jaime’s taunts still managing to affect her more than the years of vitriol she’d suffered growing up. “Maybe you should be worrying more about your own stamina, Lannister. I’ve been beating you fair and square all week.”

“That’s only because you’re so frustrated,” he explained, a shit eating grin plastered all over his face, like he’d already won this round, since her physical attributes were no match for his tongue. “I can help with that too, if you’re interested. ‘Tis the season for loving and giving, after all.”

Jaime waggled his troublesome tongue at her like he was showing off unknown talents and she glared, ignoring the shiver that ran down her spine at the salacious gesture. “Peace on earth and goodwill to all men aside, I’m not interested.”

“Your loss then.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s not.”

His response was as quick as a flash of amused lightning, throwing Brienne off her stride as he turned to face her, his shoulder now resting against the wall as his green eyes sparkled with unconcealed mirth. “You must be a nightmare to take out to dinner.”

“Excuse me?”

“To paraphrase every single nanny I’ve ever had, how do you know you don’t like something until you try it?” he laughed, half a joke and half something else that sounded a lot closer to a genuine concern than she’d been expecting.

“I don’t see how _that_ has anything to do with eating out,” she spluttered, realising her mistake a second too late as Jaime’s eyebrow quirked and she felt a new rush of heat paint her face. Opening her mouth to apologise for her naivety, she discovered that she was fighting a losing battle to even form words and that Jaime had been given a chance to push the point home a little harder.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he mused, casually rolling his shoulder as if needing to stretch, the movement causing him to inch along the wall so he was almost close enough that her senses were overwhelmed by the very scent of him. She started to count her heartbeats, throwing her gaze away as she hit thirty, drifting back to the earlier problem of the mistletoe that had yet to be solved. _At least I can rule out Jaime. I think. I hope._ “I can see some similarities.”

Brienne took a deep breath, willing herself to believe that the lewdness of his wink wasn’t sending her stomach into knots. He did this all the time, this wasn’t anything new. “I-I hate you,” she growled.

“Then why are you still here with me when the rest of your friends are taking advantage of the dance floor across the corridor?”

“I don’t dance.”

He took a step forward, purring out condemnation. “Liar.”

She matched his advancing momentum, the increasing intimacy of their heated discussion not lost on him either, if his sharply drawn breaths and the colour rising across his cheekbones was anything to be trusted. “Hypocrite.”

“Gods, your eyes are gorgeous even when you’re this worked up,” he murmured, leaving her gasping in shock but he continued on like he’d merely told her the weather forecast for the weekend. “I saw you two, maybe three, weeks ago in Visenya’s Hill with Loras, Sansa, and the little brunette my sister hates so much. And I swear to the seven, you were doing something that looked suspiciously like _dancing_.”

“How would you even know that? I can’t see you enjoying a night in Visenya’s Hill.”

“My cousin was having his bachelor party there,” Jaime explained, his hand coming up to softly, exploratory, deliberately, brush over her arm. “And unless there’s another great beast of a woman with the same amazing legs and ass that I’ve been looking at for weeks then I don’t think I’m mistaken. They had to drag me out of there. I…”

“You can stop it now,” she snapped, his fingers tracing and joining up freckles like they were no longer under conscious control, goose bumps rising in the wake of his touch. “I don’t know what you’re trying to achieve but I’m getting too tired to work out why you’re finding it so funny to mess with me tonight.”

He barked out a humourless laugh, Brienne motionlessly waiting for everything to click into place. “Surely you can’t be that oblivious? We’re standing under a blanket of mistletoe for fuck’s sake and you’re wondering why I’m _messing_ with you?”

“I didn’t put that up!” she barked back automatically, her defensives building as she ran through her list of likely suspects again, coming to a conclusion that made less sense than the rest of her night had. “Wait, you’re not?”

“You’re far too much fun to tease,” he admitted, running his fingertips further up her arm, stroking over the sensitive skin at the crook of her elbow and continuing on a path towards her shoulder. Brienne could hardly trust herself to breathe steadily anymore, as other than a few grazed fingertips and one half hug when she’d stopped him for falling in black ice outside the building, they didn’t really touch. “You blush so easily.”

“You’re not r-really proving your…point,” she stuttered, gulping down air as Jaime stopped touching just as she was getting used to having him gently map her freckled skin and the lines of muscle underneath. His eyes were still full of unspoken questions though, her nod of acquiescence granting him permission to move the hand now hovering over her exposed collar.

“I’m getting there.” As if she was something far more delicate than her outward appearance promised, Jaime traced along the hollow of her collarbone, the slight pressure of skin on skin tickling and tantalising. His palm ended up pressed against her solid shoulder, and she was near nuzzling into it before the thought could form in her mind, his slow, all knowing smile setting her pulse racing all over again. “I thought that all this was you teasing me back.”

“And why would I want to do that?”

“Because it’s Christmas and I think you have a crush on me. Just like I have one on you.”

“ _Jaime_.” His name was little more than breath, the hand now cradling her cheek stealing the last of the air in her lungs. Although the darkening glints in Jaime’s eyes were all she could focus on, Brienne could hear Olenna’s end of year speech echoing through the speaker system from the room opposite, reminding and commending their employees about embracing the merger. She quickly had to bite back a laugh at how favourable the joining of the companies had personally become, Jaime’s expression turning from quizzical to desirous as his gaze kept darting down to her lips.

“I’d really like to kiss you now.”

“I think…” she started, pausing as the shock returned to stop her thinking out loud and he started batting his golden eyelashes at her, appealingly light hearted. Brienne wished she had enough experience to know when a kiss was just a kiss and that such things didn’t necessarily mean any harm would come from it, but in her past, the two things seemed to be intertwined. Still despite his flaws and her insecurities, she trusted Jaime explicitly. And maybe, if her dreams were too be believed, she more than _liked_ him too.

“Earth to Tarth,” he tapped her temple twice. “Much as it might make my life more interesting, I can’t read your mind.”

“I…I’d really like to kiss you, too.”

“Thank the gods,” he swore, a touch of relief flavouring the words and giving her a beat to wonder if he’d _known_ her feelings or had just thrown a hopeful guess into the seasonal celebration. But Brienne wasn’t allowed to overthink anything as the softly determined press of his lips against hers narrowed her whole world to the unique feeling of Jaime Lannister tenderly kissing her under stolen mistletoe. Closing her eyes to bask in the sensations racing under her skin and making her breath catch in her throat, Brienne mumbled out a contented moan as an arm was slid around her middle, wrapping her own limbs around Jaime’s shoulders in an attempt to steady herself as he pulled her into a tighter embrace.

She could tell he was trying to be careful, answering her sighs with a growling rumble that reverberated through his chest, licking and nipping and sucking at her lower lip until she found the courage to tilt her head and deepen their kiss. Her fingers slid into his hair, his tongue dancing with hers inside her mouth, surfacing only to gasp and chose to drown over and over again.

When they finally parted an indeterminable time later, his eyes were as dark as the night sky, his perfect hair a halo of tumbled silk. And he was smiling through deep, heavy breaths. “I’m not an expert on mistletoe conduct, but I think that counts as one kiss.” He grinned and she joined him, messing up the rhythm they had just found by bumping noses in an eager attempt to steal another kiss, enjoying the sound of their lips breaking apart, just to re-join again, the feel of his hands claiming every inch of skin she had let Loras expose, and the taste of her balm and wine shared between them. “Two tops,” he panted. “And, traditionally it’s a berry a kiss.”

“Oh.” If they were going to follow that rule, they could be there all night. Feeling giddier than she had in a long time, and with Jaime still tangled up in the circle of her arms, Brienne attempted a joke. “Don’t think any of this means I’m going to go easy on you tomorrow night.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. But I have been dreaming about what we could do in the showers after.” She blushed all over again and he laughed, peppering the strong line of her jaw with kisses. “And now you’re thinking about it too.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Shut up.”

“Never,” he murmured against the corner of her mouth before silencing himself by demanding her lips again. “Do you want to think about the dinners I’ll take you to instead? Or the movies we’ll watch or the next time, at Visenya’s Hill, when _together_ …”

Maybe, Brienne considered as she lost count of how many kisses they'd shared, her hands skimming over his torso as his explored her back, promises of what they could do on New Year’s Eve once the fireworks had ended falling past his lips, Christmas parties weren’t that bad after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
